


The Wait

by Copgirl1964



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-04-24 15:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14357955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/pseuds/Copgirl1964
Summary: In the episode "The Lying Detective" we saw how much Culverton Smith's statement affected DI Greg Lestrade. It was the final straw upon which he decided it was time to retire. Leaving London behind he settles down in a remote part of Wales. Almost three years later he's built himself a life that makes him happy. The only thing missing is another person to share his life with. This is when life drops a man in his lap who he had considered a friend and perhaps even more before he had left London.The story got a T rating so far. That might change later. I'm going to add tags as the story evolves.It might start a bit sad but I promise it's going to get better quickly and you can expect some fluff and a happy end.Special thanks go to @MapleleafCameo for taking the time to beta this story.





	1. Prologue - No Big Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrynTWedge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrynTWedge/gifts).



> Waiting for someone you love is never easy. Especially when the one you’re waiting for isn’t aware that you’re waiting.  
> (unknown)  
> 

It should have rained that day. Or at least there should have been a cold wind and grey clouds. Instead, the sun was shining brightly and birds were singing merrily to announce the arrival of summer. It was the day Greg Lestrade left London.  
   
Two weeks prior he'd received his retirement papers and his now former colleagues had taken him to the pub for several rounds of farewell pints of beer. A few officers of the MET had shown up the following day to help him load his belongings into a lorry and had waved goodbye when he finally drove off with a heavy heart, heading for the M1.  
   
For a year or two he'd toyed with the idea to retire early and the confession of Culverton Smith had been the final straw. For hours on end the DI had listened to horrifying details he still longed to forget and when he'd finally closed the case file for good, Greg Lestrade had told his boss he wouldn't, well, couldn’t do it any more. The Chief Superintendent had nodded solemnly and accepted his decision.  
   
It had still been a few months before he could actually leave New Scotland Yard behind; months in which he mostly had made plans as well as arrangements on where he intended to go. His younger self had thought he would travel for a while but all Greg longed for now was a quiet place in the country.  
   
‘A house surrounded by trees and a dog,’ he'd answered, whenever anybody bothered to ask him what he wanted.  
   
The day he went to Baker Street to break the news to Sherlock Holmes who was once more living with John Watson, plus the doctor’s little girl, the consulting detective had looked calmly at Greg with his strange, rainbow coloured eyes. Greg had expected indifference, instead the man had offered his hand to shake, told him it had been an honour working with him and that he hoped to receive a text or an email every once in a while.  
   
Then there had been the business with Sherlock Holmes’ brother Mycroft, a man Greg had not only come to respect but considered a friend longer than he could remember. Mycroft had offered both his best whisky and companionship up until and after the trial of Culverton Smith. In return, Greg had supported Mycroft, while he had recovered from the events at Sherrinford.  
   
They'd become so close that more than friendship was almost a given but the time had never been right to make the change from friends to lovers. Greg realised too late that he probably should have raised the topic some time ago because a few days before Greg's retirement Mycroft had left for Japan and he still hadn’t returned by the day Greg drove west.  
   
Greg Lestrade had thought that saying goodbye to Mycroft would be the hardest part of leaving. Not being able to say goodbye had turned out to be much harder though.


	2. A Plain and Simple Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get a glimps at Greg's life, which is quite different from that of a DI.
> 
> Thank you to all those who left a comment already. I try to update frequently.

‘Tilly!’ Greg yelled into the dark, shivering slightly in the cool wind of the early spring blowing in his face. Seconds later a medium-sized mutt of questionable ancestry came bounding through the barn door and started a dance of canine delight around her human.  
Once he’d locked the door, Greg petted the dog’s short white fur, switched off the light in the barn and jogged up the narrow staircase that led to the upper floor. About a third of the floor served as storage area the rest housed the comfortable flat Greg lived in. Had somebody told him when he was still with the London police that he would end up living in a barn, he’d have declared the person mad. Now he could hardly imagine living anywhere else than the comfortable rooms with their wooden floor and brick walls.

Greg went into the living room where he poured himself a cup of piping hot peppermint tea from a pot that sat on top of the wood stove and carried it to his armchair. Sitting down, he put his socked feet up onto the Ottoman and wiggled his toes towards the lovely heat the stove was already radiating. 

Tilly flopped down at her favourite spot between armchair and Ottoman with a grunt. She looked at her owner from underneath the shelter of his legs and thumped her tail on the floor a couple of times whereupon Greg reached down and gave her bum an affectionate pat. Content that her satisfaction with the resting arrangement for the evening had been declared and understood, Tilly curled into a ball and went to sleep. 

Watching the dog sleep and sipping his tea, Greg contemplated what he’d accomplished that day and the plans he’d for the next. He’d repaired the fence of the donkey’s range and cleaned the area of the barn the chicken had occupied during the winter. He wanted to drive to town on the following day to replace the car’s battery and he needed parts from the ironmongery to fix the gate of the donkey’s range. The walls in the barn needed a fresh layer of whitewash although that could probably wait another month or two. There was always something to do on the small farm he’d bought two years prior. 

The farm had come with a handful of chicken, two feral cats and a couple of donkeys called Sir Peter and Kiki. Tilly, who was now about six years old, he’d adopted from a shelter in Battersea shortly before he left London, because as long as he could remember he’d always wanted a dog.  
He looked at the shaggy mutt and smiled when he saw how her paws twitched. Tilly growled in her sleep, probably dreaming about the rabbits she’d chased during the day. 

Greg put on his reading glasses and picked up the book he had brought home from the small library of the village 10 miles down the road. All things considered, he was reasonably satisfied with his life.


	3. A Ghost from the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the kind comments. They really mean a lot to me. 
> 
> Here's an explanation why Greg is living on his little farm all by himself but the time of a quiet and somewhat lonely life is about to be over.

Greg stood in the kitchen, clad in his flannel pyjamas, waiting for the water in the kettle to boil. He tore a page from the calendar. The 5th of April. Thursday, followed by Friday, which was his writing day. He’d looked at what remained of the measuring tape that doubled as a long-term countdown just this morning. 30 inches were left. 30 inches that equalled 30 weeks. More than half a year.  
The kettle’s whistle startled him. Greg switched it off, added a dash of cold water and poured the no longer boiling water over the ground coffee in the French press before he resumed his brooding.  
126 weeks since that bloody letter, adorned with the royal seal, had arrived. He still remembered his shock receiving it and the even greater shock of what had been asked of him; to wait three years before he contacted Mycroft again. For the good of the British empire.  
Since that day, he’d faithfully filled about one page in a large notebook per week, hoping that one day he could show it to Mycroft, the man he missed so much it almost physically hurt. Greg, patient, persistent, would wait forever even though Mycroft had no idea that Greg was waiting.  
Who was he kidding? After such a long time without contact, without an explanation on his part, would Mycroft even be interested in talking to him, not to mention going through the trouble of reading his diary? For all Greg knew Mycroft could have found out where he went and got in touch himself if he had been interested.  
Feeling his eyes starting to sting, Greg took a deep breath and slammed his fist on the kitchen counter. ‘I’m not giving up hope!’ he told himself.  
Tilly barked in alarm. She pressed against his leg and started whining until Greg bent down and hugged her, getting his ear licked for his trouble and comfort.  
‘I’ll introduce you to him one day,’ he promised Tilly, who got very excited because apparently she’s done something right, for her master’s voice sounded somewhat happier than half a minute ago.  
Greg stood up. He pressed the plunger of the French press down to prepare his coffee and, once he had poured it into a ceramic mug, took it to the bathroom.  
Freshly showered, shaved, dressed and caffeinated, he emerged 20 minutes later, ready to drive to town as planned. That was the moment he heard one of the donkeys braying pitifully.  
* * *  
The hammer hit its target with a satisfying thump and the last nail was in place. Except for the gate, the donkey’s range was secured.  
Greg refrained from cheering because he’d managed only half of the work he’d been planning to accomplish that day. The reason for the delay watched him with huge brown eyes and tilted head from a safe distance. Instead of driving to town as he had planned, Greg had spent the better part of the morning chasing after Peter who had decided to go for a walk on his own. He’d only been alerted to the fact that the sneaky donkey had once again escaped the range by Kiki, who had started to bray from the top of her lungs; of course only after her companion had disappeared from sight.  
Fishing two carrots from a bag, Greg offered them to the donkeys whose long ears immediately flicked forward. Kiki took her carrot immediately, but Peter suspected some sort of trap and stared at the carrot and the man offering it with obvious distrust.  
All of a sudden, both animals turned their heads to look curiously at the eastern sky. Following their gaze, Greg first could make out the sound of a helicopter and moments later caught sight of it. The helicopter flew in the most peculiar fashion and its engine sounded odd, almost like it wasn’t working properly.  
The helicopter plummeted towards the lake at the foot of the hill Greg and the donkeys stood on. He could make out two people inside the cockpit. The pilot was frantically trying to regain control of the helicopter while the passenger seemed to argue with him. It looked as if it would crash but moments before hitting the water the pilot pulled back and it hovered over the lake’s surface. The left door of the helicopter was immediately pushed open, and the passenger climbed onto the skid. Without any hesitation, he jumped into the lake. No sooner he had plunged into the water, the helicopter accelerated but it didn’t even reach the edge of the lake before it exploded.

Pieces of torn metal and synthetic materials, some of them burning, rained down. Greg’s police training kicked in. As his brain still tried to work out what he’d seen his legs already carried him towards his bicycle that stood next to the wooden shelter. Leaping onto the bike he pedalled downhill at neck-breaking speed. The pilot undoubtedly had died when the helicopter exploded but the man who had jumped into the lake might have been lucky and not been hit by any debris.  
When he arrived at the edge of the lake Greg noticed, that the fingers of his left hand hadn’t just curled around the bicycles handlebar but still clutched the carrot Peter had refused to eat. He let both drop to the ground and looked out at the water. The dark head of a man swimming was visible, but he swam very slowly, and it looked as if he could hardly hold his head up to breathe.  
‘Shit!’ Greg cursed. He needed to get into the lake because the man undoubtedly was weakened by the freezing water.  
He kicked off his shoes and flung his jumper to one side before shucking his trousers. The frigid water took his breath away and undoubtedly weakened the poor sod attempting to reach the shore.  
Greg swam towards the struggling figure as fast as he could.  
Had someone asked him later how he managed to pull the barely conscious man to the bank, he wouldn’t have been able to answer. With teeth chattering from the cold, Greg dragged him onto the shore. There he turned him onto his back and gasped. The familiar form of Mycroft Holmes blinked blearily up at him.


	4. Rescue and Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Greg saved Mycroft from drowning in the icy water he needs to get him home and warmed up again. The question is how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much again for all the comments. 
> 
> This chapter is a little longer because you might need to wait for the next chapter for at least a week or so.

Both men looked at each other, clearly startled by the unexpected encounter.  
‘I.. we.. can’t be seen.’ Mycroft whispered. His speech was slurred, undoubtedly caused by hypothermia. The words were enough though to tell Greg that it was time to act.  
‘First, we need you to get you warm,’ Greg told the shivering figure and swiftly began to remove Mycroft’s jacket, waistcoat and shirt. Wrestling the barely conscious man out of his wet clothes proved difficult, his fingers cold and stiff from swimming in the cold water. Greg wished it was warmer. The sun had just set though and even during the day the temperatures had hardly reached 10 degrees.  
While peeling off the wet clothes, Greg wondered how he was supposed to get Mycroft to his house. He no longer carried his mobile phone around because there was hardly any connection within a two-mile radius. And who should he call? For whatever reason Mycroft deemed it necessary that they shouldn’t be seen.  
What remained of the exploded helicopter had crashed at the opposite shore of the lake or fallen into the water so the immediate attention wouldn’t be drawn to the bank where they were currently situated. If someone cared to look in their direction, they’d be immediately spotted though so it was best to hurry. 

Having been completely focused on his task Greg failed to hear the soft steps behind him. When he had bared Mycroft’s torso and turned to reach for the jumper he’d discarded earlier, he produced a startled yelp because they were no longer alone. Sir Peter lipped through Greg’s clothes on the ground, searching for the carrot the human offered to him earlier.  
Greg had never been happier to see the donkey because he offered the means to transport Mycroft up the hill and to Greg’s house.  
Snatching the jumper away from the donkey, Greg hurried to get Mycroft dressed in the jumper. With a bit of an effort, Greg pulled on his trousers and slipped into his shoes.  
Having found and eaten the carrot Peter waited patiently for Greg. The donkey wasn’t exactly pleased when a strange human being ended up sitting on his back, nevertheless he managed because he'd carried heavier load in the past. As soon as Greg started to push his bicycle uphill, Peter followed him, the man on his back half lying half sitting, clinging to the short mane.  
Halfway up the hill it started to rain, and before they finally reached Greg’s house, humans as well as animal were thoroughly drenched.  
* * *  
No sooner than they had reached the barn, Greg called Mike Stamford, the doctor in the next village, who promised to come over immediately. While he was waiting, Greg once again peeled wet clothes from a shivering Mycroft and gently wrapped the man in two large towels and a blanket.  
Greg had considered to bring Mycroft upstairs to his warmer flat, but the steep staircase shouldn’t be navigated by a man who struggled to stay on his feet. Even with Greg’s support, the chance of Mycroft falling and injuring himself were far too great.  
Instead, Greg had laid him down on a makeshift bed composed of a few bales of hay, a sleeping mat, a pillow and another large blanket. Completely exhausted, Mycroft lay there with his eyes closed, shivering ever so slightly.

* * *  
Greg watched anxiously as the doctor prodded Mycroft’s pale body here and there, took his temperature, listened to his breathing and shone a light in his eyes. 

‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ Mike Stamford asked, while he was checking Mycroft’s blood-pressure.  
No explanation was necessary who the doctor meant by "him". The previous autumn Greg had been down with a bad cold. When Stamford had checked up on him he'd seen the photo on the chest of drawers in Greg’s bedroom. The only photo he had of Mycroft. Stamford hadn't asked then and Greg hadn't explained.  
'Yes,' Greg replied, his eyes fixed on the doctor's every movement.   
Stamford bit his lip, trying to hide the smile that crept onto his face. Straightening up he took Greg, still shivering in own his wet clothes, gently by the shoulders.  
'Look,' he said, trying not to sound patronising. 'You're really no use, hovering over my shoulder, dripping all over my back. Not to mention that you're in danger of catching hypothermia yourself which could be followed by pneumonia. I promise to take good care of him.'  
The doctor nodded towards Mycroft. ' How about you take a shower, put on some dry clothes and make tea.'  
Knowing the doctor was right, Greg nodded and, with one last glance at Mycroft, he went upstairs to do as he had been told. He really was chilled to the bone. Before he went into the shower, he put the kettle on so the tea could steep and cool down a bit.

'Your friend is going to be quite all right,' Stamford told Greg when he returned twenty minutes later. A hot water-bottle tucked under his arm, Greg carried a tray with cups, spoons, a Thermos and a glass of honey.  
'While you were under the shower I nicked a cup of your tea and honey. He drank all of it, and I gave him a shot to help him to sleep through the night. All he needs now is warmth and rest.'

Greg was relieved that Mycroft, covered with a blanket, would be alright. Stamford poured two cups of tea and stirred some honey in it, while Greg wrapped the hot water-bottle in a towel and put it under the blanket at Mycroft's feet. He could see that Mycroft wore the clothes he had provided, including the thickest and softest pair of socks Greg owned.  
Once Mycroft was bundled up again, Greg called for Tilly. The dog came dashing from a corner where she had been waiting. Scratching the excited dog behind her ears for a bit, Greg told Tilly to lie next to Mycroft to provide further warmth.  
The doctor and Greg drank their tea, watching the dog getting settled.  
‘Look, Mike, I’d appreciate if for now, you wouldn’t mention that you treated My.. uhm.. a stranger. If you like I can pay you cash for your expenses.’  
‘It’s okay,’ Stamford interrupted Greg. ‘It doesn’t look like he was involved in any crime so frankly, don’t care. See that you keep him warm. I'll pop over tomorrow afternoon and see how you’re both doing.”  
‘Thanks, mate.’ Greg felt thankful the kind doctor didn’t ask any more questions although he probably suspected that his patient had something to do with the helicoptercrash. News travelled fast in the small community and by now the Icrash site would be crawling with police as well as search- and rescue services.  
Stamford left as soon as he had finished his tea and Greg got ready for bed. Instead of going upstairs he took the last of his dry blankets and laid down next to Mycroft. The man needed all the warmth he could get, Greg told himself while pressing his body against Mycroft’s.  
Outside the rain had stopped and the sliver of the rising moon became visible through a window. To the sounds of Mycroft’s breathing and the donkeys munching quietly on their barley straw Greg fell asleep.


	5. Setting Priorities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after Greg brought Mycroft to his home.

Mycroft had the weirdest of dreams. He was lying in a bed of sweetsmelling hay, covered by a woollen blanket. Even his feet, which tended to be cold during the night, were warm. The socks, sweatpants and jumper he wore, didn’t belong to him. Boxed in between a dog and a donkey,he'd his face buried in the donkey's grey fur.   
Mycroft's eyes blinked open. He really was lying on a bed of hay and there were both a dog as well as a donkey; two donkeys actually. But he didn’t have his nose buried in the fur of a donkey. The soft strands of silvery hair belonged to Gregory.  
Mycroft’s thoughts were still slow, probably from the medication he remembered a doctor had injected him some hours earlier, but he felt himself becoming more alert. The helicopter had exploded; Charles, his pilot, had sacrificed his own life to save him. They, no, he’d managed to get away with the information. Mycroft didn’t doubt though that his pursuers would still be looking for him. Only if they saw his dead body with their own eyes, they would stop their hunt.

Looking at the sleeping man curled up against him, Mycroft allowed himself a second of sentiment. He’d do everything in his power to keep Gregory safe, and as soon as Mycroft had accomplished his mission, he’d find out why on earth Gregory had disappeared from his life.

'Wake up, Gregory.' Mycroft shook the man’s shoulder softly.

'Wha…?' Greg woke up with a start. Sitting up he almost headbutted Mycroft, who'd been leaning over him. For a moment, Greg blinked owlishly, while the broadest of smiles broke out on his face.  
'I can’t believe you’re really here.' He beamed at Mycroft who studied him with keen eyes.

'As much as I’d love to celebrate our unreckoned reunion and talk, it’s of the utmost importance that I get access to a computer as soon as possible. Presuming you own one and you’ve also access to the world wide web, would you show me where it is, please?'

Greg, still in the process of waking up properly, nodded and stood up. He helped Mycroft freeing himself from his blanket and led him upstairs, keeping a watchful eye on every step Mycroft took.

'Have a seat, I’ll get my laptop.' Greg indicated a chair at the kitchen table. 'Do you want tea or breakfast? You must be hungry,' he asked when he returned with the laptop.

'First things first, Gregory. This has the highest priority.'

Mycroft booted the laptop and without hesitation typed in Greg’s old password. It didn’t work. Greg couldn’t help looking smug when he saw Mycroft’s puzzled expression.

'I sort of inherited this laptop from the former owner. Never got around to changing the password.' 

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the statement. 'And?'

'It’s Spencer1961.'

'A fan of the princess of Wales,' Mycroft concluded. Greg blinked. He'd never made the connection.

As soon as the laptop was ready, Mycroft opened a program Greg didn’t even recognise, and began typing rapidly. Greg considered watching but knowing Mycroft he wouldn’t get a word out of him right now. Dawn was just breaking and definitely earlier than he usually got up. Greg took a quick shower, dressed and dismantled the makeshift bed. When he came back upstairs with blankets, pillows and the now only lukewarm water-bottle, he saw that Mycroft was using the chat of what looked like the page of a car rental company. Whatever he typed didn’t look like he was discussing whether insurance and free mileage were included.

Mycroft put in another fifteen minutes of rapid typing during which time Greg first fed the animals and put the kettle on. As if the boiling of the water was a signal, Mycroft leaned back in his chair with a soft sigh and looked at Greg.  
‘Done,’ Mycroft announced in a tone that indicated he was extremely relieved.

‘Ordered a Rolls for your next holiday in Monaco?’

Mycroft tsked. ‘Of course, the page of that particular rental car company is designed to allow me to connect with my office in London. It’s impossible to restore the data I transferred. Whoever is going to check your laptop will only find that you were looking for options to rent a car in Venice in autumn.’

‘In Venice?’

‘Yes, you thought about visiting an old friend from school who moved to Padova, a charming region west of Venice. He’s married to an Italian wife and has two sons if I remember correctly.’ Mycroft smiled. ‘Could I trouble you for breakfast now, Gregory? And I think I’m overdue for a shower.’

Greg reckoned that due to the lack of exposure to Holmes brilliance in the past months he was left too confused to come up with more than a nod and showing Mycroft where he’d find a towel as well as a toothbrush. Only when he was back in the kitchen, fixing toast and an omelette, he caught himself smiling again, happy fate had decided to reunite him with Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for ending the chapter here. Life got in the way, otherwise I'd have got you more of what evolved that day. The chapter is under way though, and I hope to give you the next one soon.


	6. Precautions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I was on a mission for the government. A very important but also extremely dangerous mission, which, as you know, resulted in the destruction of my helicopter. I believe that some people might come looking for me.’ Greg and Mycroft getting ready for a visitor.

Hair still wet from the shower Mycroft ate breakfast with gusto. Greg watched him eat and hoped that Mycroft was ready to talk once he had finished his meal. He itched to know what had brought him here, and he really wanted to talk about the letter he’d received all those months prior. The letter that had asked to refrain from further contact.  
He was just about to speak up but Mycroft beat him in that regard.  
‘Now,’ Mycroft said, dabbing his mouth delicately with a napkin Greg never used but somehow felt was relevant to Mycroft, ‘I understand, that you have many questions and I promise that I’ll try to answer as much as possible. First, I believe that some people might come looking for me.’  
Greg frowned. ‘Dangerous people I presume.’  
Mycroft nodded. ‘I was,’ he hesitated for a second, ‘I was on a mission for the government. A very important but also extremely dangerous mission, which, as you know, resulted in the destruction of my helicopter. I can’t give you any further details.’  
Mycroft drank from his tea and, keeping the cup raised, he said, ‘this is very good tea. Much better than the tea you used to make in London.’ He winked and Greg stuck out his tongue in a childish gesture. If Mycroft had foreseen this reaction to lower the tension, he’d been correct.  
Taking another sip, Mycroft continued.  
‘Neither my name is known to the people who caused the explosion, nor should they know what I actually look like and the probability that anyone but you saw me escape is very unlikely. Still, you as well as anyone living close to the lake might be of interest to them, and I’m convinced they are going to show up soon.’

Greg nodded. ‘So it’s best you stay hidden here for now.’ 

‘Let me be very clear. My presence will put you in grave danger, Gregory. It'd be safer for you if I left.’ 

Greg scoffed. ‘I'm not letting you leave, while there are people trying to hurt you.’

Gratitude, that life had granted him this loyal man for a friend, made Mycroft’s chest swell and he reached out to cover Greg's hand with his own. 

'Thank you. As much as I hate putting you at risk, there's no-one I'd rather have at my side at a time like this.' 

Looking at their joined hands, Greg smiled. 'Alright, what do you need me to do?'

‘First I need a place to hide.’ Mycroft, expecting Greg had to think about a good hiding place, picked up his fork again and took a generous bite of the omelette. 

Greg rubbed his chin. ‘Actually, there’s a fantastic place right next to the stairs where you can hide. I discovered it by pure chance.’ 

Finishing his food quickly, Mycroft followed Greg, who led him to an old oak closet tucked into a corner. Greg opened the door. Inside hung clothes he wore outdoors and also the old Mackintosh he’d worn when he’d been a DI.

‘There were still old coats hanging inside when I moved in. I swear to me it looked as if I could climb through the coats and on the other side I’d find Narnia. Instead,’ Greg reached into the closet and, putting his hand flat against the right wall, pushed it aside, ‘I found this.’ He stepped back and, craning his neck, Mycroft could see a space a bit smaller than the closet itself.

‘The man who lived here with his wife had used this space to store his booze. I found several bottles of whiskey, gin and brandy. Believe me, he wasn’t picky.’ 

Mycroft investigated the construction more thoroughly. Only on very close inspection did he detect that the closet was connected to the wall on its right. When pushed, the oaken side slid into a narrow gap along the wall. 

‘The kitchen is on the other side,’ Greg provided. ‘If you were hiding in here, you could probably hear every word that’s spoken.’ He didn’t say that Mycroft, in return, could also be overheard. 

Mycroft swallowed. ‘That’s not exactly a large space,’ he said. He’d never told anyone that while not exactly claustrophobic he certainly wasn't fond of small spaces. 

Naturally, Greg picked up his trepidation. ‘You could always hide in the hayloft. Those people won’t climb up and turn it upside down, will they?’

‘No, this is good,’ Mycroft replied quickly. He had no intentions to lie hidden in a pile of dusty straw or hay. Furthermore, he was able to leave this hiding place quickly, should the need arise.

‘Now that's settled, I need a weapon. In case you require help or I’m discovered after all.’

Returning to the kitchen, Mycroft studied the knife block on the kitchen counter before he chose one of the Damascus Gyuto knifes. The 8 inches long, razor sharp blade glinted dangerously as he weighted the knife in his hand. 'That should do,' he said, his voice cool.

'Mycroft.' Greg didn’t know how to express his feelings but hoped the brilliant man would understand that he found the thought of him wielding the knife to slice and dice his adversaries, exceptionally disconcerting.

But Mycroft did understand. His expression changed from emotionless to soft.  
'I plan to stay hidden, Gregory. This,' Mycroft lifted the knife, 'is only the very last solution.' He didn’t divulge that, had the situation been different, he’d dealt with them in his own fashion. But most likely others knew about the whereabouts of whoever would show up here, in which case Gregory would have to abandon this house for good. 

Greg opened his mouth to ask what story Mycroft recommended he should tell, when his phone rang. It was Mike Stamford. 

'Good morning Greg, two suspicious characters, who pretended to be reporters, just left my house.’

‘Wait a second, Mike. I’d like to put you on speaker.’ Mycroft stepped closer to listen to what the doctor had to say.

‘Good morning,’ Stamford repeated cheerfully. ‘I hope you two weathered the dip in the lake well.’ Upon hearing two voices answering their affirmative, he immediately continued. 

‘Bill, my nosy neighbour, apparently told them that I went out last night. I was too surprised to deny that. I told them that you hurt your foot but didn't give any details. Doctor-patient confidentiality and such, right? Still I have a feeling they're going to show up at your place very soon. I don’t think they were actual reporters.'

'I'll take your word for it. Thanks for the call, mate. Next pint is on me,' Greg replied and hung up.

'Do you have gauze bandage?' Mycroft asked. 'It might be a good idea to have your foot bandaged when they arrive.'  
Greg hunted for the material, while Mycroft went through Greg's kitchen. Soon they were set up in the living-room, with Greg's left foot in Mycroft's lap, who started bandaging it quickly but professionally.  
Quickly Greg noticed, that something pressed slightly painfully into the arch of his foot. 

'Have you put something underneath the bandage?' he asked Mycroft with a frown on his face.

'Yes, Gregory. It's a pea that I took from a container in the kitchen. It shouldn't hurt too bad when you walk but will provide you with a more convincing limp that will stay on the same foot the whole time they're here.' He quickly finished the job and fastened the end of the bandage.

His bandaged foot looked like a doctor had done it. 'That looks pretty convincing,' Greg said, carefully trying to walk. 'Ouch, that isn't comfortable at all. I surely won't forget which foot hurts. I'll tell them I stepped on a nail in case they should ask.' 

‘Don’t go too deeply into details, Gregory. The more information you offer, the more you might forget and contradict yourself later.’

They quickly put away the rest of the bandage and cleared the kitchen of anything that might suggest a second person was around, all while Greg told Mycroft over and over again what he’d allegedly done the day before and how he’d hurt his foot. They even managed to put a chair and all of Mycroft’s belongings into the tiny space before they heard Tilly bark outside. 

‘Sounds like it’s show-time.’ Greg looked out of the window and saw a man approach the barn on foot.

‘Do you have someone you can call?’ Mycroft asked quickly. A neighbour perhaps. It'd help if you got a visitor.’

‘I don’t want to put anyone from the village in danger.’ 

‘I understand, but it’d be an advantage if someone showed up so they know you’re not by yourself. Foremost they’re interested in getting information. Killing is messy and draws attention. It’d be their last resort and only if they suspected you knew who they were. These people are extremely dangerous, Gregory. They won’t hesitate to torture you if they felt you might know something. I beseech you. Be very, very careful.’

Greg had only seen Mycroft this worried when Sherlock had been shot all those years ago. How he longed to kiss this man but the last thing he needed right now, was a rush of hormones to confuse him, and perhaps even Mycroft. Instead, he pressed Mycroft’s arm assuringly and nodded. ‘I promise.’ 

He was just about to close the sliding door when he remembered the photo of Mycroft and himself. He dashed into his bedroom and returned with the photo and his diary a moment later. 

‘I think this shouldn’t be found either,’ Greg said, blushing furiously, when he pushed both items in Mycroft’s hands. Sliding the panel into place and closing the door of the closet, Greg felt satisfied there were no traces of the man hiding. He limped downstairs, but on the spur of the moment, right before he opened the door, he sent a text to Tiny Todd, the local painter. 

_If you have time, come over. There’s a job I’d like to talk to you about. Greg_


	7. Playing Dumb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is playing host to first one and than two self-acclaimed journalists, hoping that he can convince them, he knows nothing about the helicopter crash, while Mycroft is on the edge of his seat with worry.

In the semi-darkness of his hiding-place, Mycroft perused the photo of Gregory and himself, which Gregory apparently kept displayed in his bedroom. ‘Curious,’ Mycroft murmured. In the picture, they smiled at each other. Mycroft remembered clearly the day it had been taken. 

A secretary from Whitehall had brought several priceless books from the British Library in his possession. He'd threatened to destroy the books unless he was allowed to speak to the Prime Minister. With background information on the secretary provided by Mycroft, Sherlock had found the man, and they'd been able to rescue the books. Both Greg and Mycroft had stood in awe over one of the recovered books when John Watson had taken the photo with his mobile phone. 

Studying their expressions closely, Mycroft recognized their mutual excitement but also their affection for each other.

He'd been so very blind. Obviously, there had been deeper feelings than friendship. Although the concept of having a friend was baffling enough for a Holmes that his inability to recognize Gregory's feelings for what they were, could be excused. 

Remembering also the day he'd returned from Japan and finding Gregory had left London already, Mycroft experienced the same feeling of loss all over again. At that time he’d expected to hear from his friend sooner rather than later but when the silence lasted days, then weeks and finally months, London became a darker place. Several times he’d considered contacting him, but Mycroft doubted that the man wanted to hear from him. After all that had happened when Greg had still been a DI, it wasn’t that unusual that someone wanted to forget their old life.

Gregory would have been in touch if he’d wanted that, wouldn’t he? Eventually, the old caring-is-not-an-advantage wall around Mycroft’s heart was in place again, the friendship of Greg Lestrade locked away and only a bitter-sweet memory. 

Still, after all this time it had only taken Gregory's smile this very morning to blast through the carefully erected wall and ignite the flame of longing again. Longing for more than the solitary life Mycroft lived, for friendship and, if he was honest, for love.

Faint voices interrupted Mycroft’s train of thought. Before he could entertain ridiculous thoughts of love, Gregory needed to survive the current situation, preferably very much unharmed. 

Downstairs, Greg opened the door to a man who looked like he’d stepped out of an episode of Peaky Blinders. All that was missing was perhaps an angry looking scar across the cheek.

‘Alan Delaney from the New York Times,’ the man introduced himself. 

‘Don’t need another newspaper,’ Greg replied, beginning to close the door into the man’s faces. 

The man, slim, with the face of a ferret, hair dyed black, put his foot in the door to prevent Greg from closing it.

‘I’m a journalist,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to sell a newspaper but get information.’ 

Greg pretended to consider this for a moment before he snapped his fingers. 

‘You’re here to write about me donkeys, aren’t ya?’ he asked delightedly. ‘Come in, they’re just having breakfast. Hay, you know. Donkeys can’t have too much fresh grass. It’s bad for them.’ He ushered the man inside but left Tilly outside. Stamford had spoken about two people, and he didn’t want another one looking around outside without knowing. 

‘Actually no, I’m looking for information on the helicopter crash last night.’

‘Oh,’ Greg frowned before he shook his head. ‘I wasn’t involved in any crash.’

The self-acclaimed journalist tried his best to smile patiently. ‘Obviously not you but some men went down with their helicopter, crashed right into the lake.’ He waved his hand in the general direction of the water. 

‘Oooh.’ Greg did his best to look slightly stumped and rubbed his chin as if he thought about what he’d just heard. ‘Can't tell ya anything how what happened,’ he said eventually. ‘Went to bed early, didn't see a thing.’ After only a moment's hesitation he added, 'But do ya want a brew? I can put the kettle on, if ya like.' He did his best to sound delighted by the prospect of having someone over for a chat.

The man nodded. ‘Very kind of you. Thank you.’

Darn!

Limping up the stairs and leading the man into the kitchen, Greg made certain Delaney saw him pushing an empty whiskey-bottle behind the rubbish-bin with his foot.   
‘What happened to you?’ Delaney asked, a corner of his mouth twitching.

‘Oh, stepped on a nail, that’s what happened,’ Greg replied, busying himself with the kettle. “Hurt enough that I called Mike.’

‘Mike?’

‘Mike Stamford, the local doctor.’ Greg bent down to show Delaney the bandage at his foot. 

Standing up again, Greg pulled two mugs from the cupboard and milk. ‘Sorry, ran out of sugar,’ he said, knowing that the tea he was about to serve would be barely drinkable without either a large helping of milk or a generous helping of sugar. Unless you were British of course.

‘Did you come all the way from New York to report about that plane crash?’ Greg asked, once he’d poured the tea.

‘Helicopter crash,’ Delaney corrected him. ‘And no, I’m stationed in London.’

‘Oh, London. It’s ages since I’ve been there. Still loud and dirty there, I reckon?’ 

Delaney nodded and took a sip of his tea. As Greg had hoped, the man wasn’t happy with the taste. Taking a generous drink from his own cup, Greg smacked his lips. ‘Nothing better than a bracing cuppa, right?”’

He’d just put his cup down, when he heard Tilly bark. The direction of it indicated, that whoever she had discovered, had been coming up the footpath that led to the back of the barn. 

‘Lemme see what that silly dog’s making a fuss about,’ Greg said and hobbled off towards the stairs. Certain the man sitting in his kitchen would use the opportunity to quickly look around, Greg was confident that there was nothing to indicate the presence of another person. 

Just before he reached the bottom of the stairs, the knock came. ‘Coming,’ Greg called and opened the door for a woman. She was about mid-thirty, had shoulder-length blond hair and a mouth that was slightly too big to make her pretty. She wore high heels, a nice skirt and her white blouse had two buttons open to put her cleavage on display.

Well, she couldn’t know that Greg was done with cleavages and longed for masculine pectorals adorned with chest hair, preferably ginger, instead. Deciding to play along, Greg simpered as he gave the top of her breasts a curious look. ‘Hello, how I can I help you?’

‘Lydia Sanders from the Sun,’ she replied. ‘I’m here for information on the helicopter crash.’

Greg waved her inside and closed the door, leaving Tilly, who was eyeing the woman suspiciously, outside. Tilly often acted feisty when confronted with strangers but Greg knew that she was too scared to actually bite. 

He grabbed a jacket, which he always kept on a hook next to the door, and limped upstairs. Instead of leading Sanders into the kitchen right away, Greg opened the closet on the landing to hang the jacket inside, giving the woman a chance to see that there was nothing, and more important, nobody inside. In retrospect, he should have suggested to Mycroft that he might do that, because only Mycroft’s self-restraint and experience prevented a startled gasp when the door opened all of a sudden.

Back in the kitchen Greg found Delaney looking out the window but the position of his feet suggested that he’d just returned from an excursion to Greg’s other rooms. Working with Sherlock for so long left an impact on Greg’s skills of observation. 

‘You probably know each other,’ Greg said when Delaney turned.

‘Why would you say that?’ Sanders asked, her voice nonchalant. 

Shit!

‘You both being reporters and here for that crash.’ Greg shrugged and tried to sound like that circumstance was all the reason. 

‘You’re right, we do know each other.’ Delaney’s smile made Greg’s skin crawl, and the way Delaney and Sanders shook hands a moment later, looked more like they made a pact than were greeting each other. 

Out of sight, Mycroft was on the edge of his seat for the next twenty minutes or so. Unless he wanted to give away his presence, he was powerless to do anything but listen how the couple of agents skilfully quizzed Greg on the day before. Mycroft’s respect grew for the former DI who neatly steered the conversation back to the donkeys again and again. He told them about Sir Peter’s escape two days prior, how he’d chased him down to the lake, glibly offering an explanation for possible hoof-prints. 

'Off he went again, gallivanting. That bloody donkey is full of beans,’ Greg told them, ready to describe another escape but both Delaney and Sanders had finally heard enough, and stood up. 

That could have been the end of the visit, but Sanders accidentally stepped with her heel on Greg’s foot. Greg yelped in pain, which caused an aggravated and deeply worried Mycroft to jump up in his hiding place, sending the chair to bang against the wall.

Mycroft froze, but the damage was done. Looking around frantically, he tried to think of a way to escape discovery, while in the kitchen the self-acclaimed journalists stared curiously at their host. 

‘That’s probably the painter who wanted to come over today. Guess I'll go open the door.’ Mycroft’s warning still very much present in his mind, Greg did his best to sound calm and confident, doing his best not to tremble. 

‘I don’t think that sound came from downstairs. It was more like next door,’ Sanders said.

‘Perhaps you have a cat?’ Delaney suggested, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

‘I happen to have two cats,’ Greg said, straightening his back. Those people were supposed to be journalists. If he hoped to stand any chance to convince them that he believed that and had nothing to hide, he needed to act accordingly. 

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I invited you in me house, made proper builder’s tea and answered all those questions. I don’t think it’s any of your business if Tiny Todd, Churchill or Jinx caused the noise.’ In a more placable tone of voice, he added, ‘Why don’t we go downstairs? You were leaving anyway, weren’t ya?’ 

Delaney pushed past Greg. ‘I think not,’ he said and opened the door of the oak-closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the cliffhanger. ;-)


	8. Out of the Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We'll see what Delaney and Sanders are going to find inside the closet, and a visitor arrives.

Delaney peered into the closet but all he could see were coats and jackets. Greg stood next to him, his arms crossed over his chest, clearly annoyed, when they heard a loud bang from downstairs. All three jumped at the sound.

‘Sorry,’ a booming voice called out, and a moment later a man came jogging up the stairs. He was 6 foot 6, heavily muscled and with shaggy black hair. His off-white flap trousers had a patch that proclaimed “Welsh Walls – Painter & Decorator”.

Greg stifled a breath of relief. ‘Ey, Todd, good to see you.’ The man had no idea how glad Greg really felt. ‘Is the door still in one piece?’

‘Yeah, it is. Forgot you oiled the hinges.’ The giant shrugged, and then looked curiously at Greg’s visitors. 

‘Told you it was probably Tiny Todd who made the sound,’ Greg told Delaney and Sanders. 

‘Tiny, right,’ Delaney said, ogling the painter. 

‘I’m the smallest of three brothers, so I was nicknamed Tiny,’ Tiny explained with a grin.

‘I’m sure the sound came from the closet,’ Sanders said hesitatingly. Greg noticed she gripped her handbag tighter and he had no doubt she carried something lethal inside of it.

‘You know about that secret cabinet inside your closet, Greg?’ Todd asked.

Greg looked aghast. ‘Secret..?’

‘Yeah, you know when the folks you bought the house from still lived here, he kept drinks and stuff in there his Missus wasn’t supposed to see. Perhaps one of your cats got trapped. If you’d let me..?’ Todd stepped forward, happy that he could be of help. That he wasn’t incinerated by Greg’s murderous look was mere luck.

Sanders and Delaney allowed Todd to reach into the closet with triumphant expressions on their faces, and Greg considered his chances for kicking one of those agents down the stairs and break the other one’s neck. Todd’s bulk would undoubtedly hinder Mycroft from getting out of his hiding place quickly, so he was on his own. In all those years with the MET he had hurt people during arrests but he’d never killed a man. Perhaps he’d go to hell after all. 

Greg quickly schooled his expression when the open door only revealed the chair.

‘No cat,’ Todd said and moved aside for Delaney to see, who actually stepped into the closet for a better look. 

‘There seems to be a hatch,’ Delaney said. He climbed onto the chair and pushed a wooden panel aside that led to the attic. No sooner than he’d moved the panel, an angry hiss could be heard, and with a ferocious hit of its paw, one of Greg’s feral cats jumped right at Delaney’s face. 

Within seconds the cat almost blinded Delaney by clawing at him and, when it made for the stairs to flee, even bit Sander’s ankle while passing. Todd was so very startled, that he’d fallen on his ass, and all of a sudden the tension inside Greg broke. He laughed out loud and couldn’t stop. 

‘Serves you nosy bastards right,’ he wheezed, a few tears on his cheeks. Clearing his throat, Greg turned serious again. 'I'm a bit miffed, I can't lie. And I’d ask ya to leave now. I can give you the doctor’s address. Think ya might need it. Tiny, would ya mind showing these two out? I’d like to check if there’s another cat trapped. Unless any of you’d like to do the honours?’ Greg waved in the general direction of the attic but nobody was interested. 

No sooner than Greg heard the door downstairs close, he climbed on the chair to look into the attic above it. He’d not known about the hatch. The small attic appeared to be empty but his diary as well as the framed photo lay on the floor, so Mycroft had to be hiding somewhere. 

Climbing into the space, Greg crawled to the skylight that led to the roof. The latch was unlocked. Upon opening it, he saw that Mycroft had flattened himself to the roof slope. Dressed in the soft grey jumper and dark trousers he’d borrowed from Greg, he almost looked like a giant bat that had landed on the roof. 

Greg opened his mouth to speak but Mycroft quickly reached down to put a hand against Greg’s lips, and with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head, indicated the two agents walking along the path that led down to the street. Sanders limped slightly and Delaney pressed a handkerchief against his cheek. From their angle Mycroft would be hidden from view but should they turn and look back, Greg’s presence at the window might make them suspicious. The last thing he wanted was for them to come back.

‘I’ll get you ASAP,’ Greg whispered, closed the skylight and returned downstairs. He got the binoculars he used for watching birds every once in a while, and went to the kitchen window. Tiny Todd stood outside, smoking a cigarette. Greg knew he wouldn’t come upstairs unless asked. The man was huge but easily spooked.

He heard the sound of an engine being started and, with the binoculars, Greg could see the car; with both agents inside. Good. Time to get Mycroft down fro the roof, which proved to be more difficult than anticipated. Eventually, they were back in Greg’s little flat and breathed equally big sighs of relief. Quietly they walked to Greg’s bedroom, where Mycroft would hide until Tiny Todd had left.   
Greg closed the door with a soft click and noticed that he’d begun to shake, now that the adrenalin left his body. He took a few deep breaths before he turned. Mycroft sat on the bed and cradled his left hand to his chest.

‘You’re bleeding!’ 

Mycroft smirked. ‘The cat that saved me from detection bit me when I climbed into the attic. I had planned to put it into the hiding space but he wouldn’t let me.’

Greg started to leave to get his first aid kit but Mycroft stopped him. ‘I think that I can wait another minute or two if you wanted to remove the pea from underneath your foot. Walking should go much more smoothly without it.’

Greg shook his head. ‘First I’ll get the disinfectant. Cat bites are a nasty business.’

While Greg was hunting for the first kit, Mycroft went to wash his hands. Both water and soap were making the wound sting only a little, the disinfectant would be painful though.

‘Better get it over with,’ Mycroft said through gritted teeth when Greg returned.

‘Sit down, and put your hand on the towel.’ Greg put a towel on Mycroft’s lap to protect the clothes and poured a generous amount of iodine on a swab.

Greg looked at Mycroft with affection. There sat a man who did undercover work that would put a James Bond to shame, jumped into a lake from a helicopter and endured the bite of a cat without making a sound but was afraid of the iodine’s sting. Well, he knew what helped, and nudged Mycroft gently with his shoulder.   
The moment Mycroft turned to look at him, Greg kissed him right on the mouth and pressed the swab to the wound a second later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't intended for the chapter to end like this but Greg insisted. Guess he was tired of waiting any longer.


	9. We need to talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I recognize the name and the signature is authentic,’ Mycroft said carefully. ‘But I have no knowledge of this letter nor its content.’  
> Greg and Mycroft finally sit down and talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that the update took so long but life got in the way. Thank you so much for all the kind comments, the kudos and reading my story to begin with I really appreciate it more than I can express.

Yes, the iodine stung like hell, but the pain faded into the background of Mycroft’s mind as quickly as it had come. Gregory was kissing him. Unsolicited. On the mouth. It wasn’t more than the gentle press of lips against his, but it shook Mycroft to the core.

His whole world shrank to the spot where their lips touched. Mycroft had kissed other people before and been kissed in return, but in comparison, all prior kisses had been mere lessons on how it was technically done.

Greg’s mouth moved ever so slightly against his, miniscule movements, which felt as if it caressed Mycroft’s very soul. The kiss only lasted a few seconds and it ended much too soon.

Opening his eyes a fraction of a second before Greg’s allowed Mycroft to watch those dark eyes as they came to rest on his face, hiding nothing.

‘Gregory.’ Mycroft’s voice was a mere whisper, but it broke nonetheless.

Greg’s lips moved, but no sound came. Shaking his head, he tried to let his eyes reveal everything he felt, and Mycroft understood. A smile crept onto his face, starting slowly at the mouth until the corners of his stormy blue eyes crinkled with happiness.

‘I missed you so much,’ Greg finally managed.

‘Oh Gregory, I…’ 

A piercing whistle interrupted Mycroft. ‘Oy, Greg, are you going to come down?’

‘Shit,’ Greg cursed, having completely forgoten about the painter, who’d probably smoked through a whole pack of cigarettes by now.

‘I’ll be back in two shakes,’ Greg promised, in his excitement almost forgetting that he still pressed the swab against the wound. Both men stared at the spot and laughed before Mycroft took the swab from Greg.

‘Go, before that giant comes clumping up to check where you are.’

‘Two shakes,’ Greg repeated and hurried downstairs, still limping slightly because of the pea under the bandage.

* * *

Discussing paint jobs took much longer than two shakes. In fact, almost an hour passed until Greg returned. He found Mycroft seated on the bed, his feet tucked under the duvet, reading the diary Greg had handed him earlier.

Completely focussed on reading, Mycroft didn’t seem to notice Greg’s return. Leaning against the doorframe Greg’s eyes roamed appreciatively over Mycroft’s face. He took in the elegant eyebrows that could speak volumes when raised in a particular fashion, the unruly curl on his forehead and the lips that were narrow but still perfect for kissing.

Greg had always admired the way Mycroft carried himself, how the suits enhanced his slender figure. Now, dressed in borrowed clothes, he looked softer but still perfect.

‘I’m not an exhibit, you know,’ Mycroft said all of a sudden, startling Greg in his contemplation.

‘That’s in the eye of the beholder.’

Mycroft blushed and lowered his gaze before he closed the diary and held it up. ‘What is this Gregory? It looks like you wrote letters that were meant for me.’

‘Of course. It was all I could do after the letter arrived.’ Greg’s expression turned sad. ‘Otherwise, I’d never stopped called, texting and writing.’

Mycroft furrowed his brow. ‘I think we need to talk, but first, you should finally remove the bandage. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make tea.’ Mycroft stood up to make room for Greg who sank down on the bed with a relieved sigh.

‘Not your worst idea,’ Greg said before taking off his shoe and sock.

He limped slightly when he came to the kitchen, where Mycroft was just pulling a jug with milk from the fridge. The spot where the pea had pressed into his foot was sore, and would probably hurt for another couple of hours.

‘There’re biscuits in the bowl on the cupboard,’ Greg said. ‘They’re fantastic. Some old birds from the village knit and bake for charity. They sell their stuff on every first Friday of the month at the market. If you don’t get there before ten, you won’t get a single crumb.’

Tea poured and chewing on a chocolate biscuit that rivalled the creations of London’s best pastry chefs, made Greg sigh in contentment.

Mycroft reached for the second biscuit and took a sip of his tea before he directed his full attention at his counterpart.

‘Now, Gregory, would you please explain what you meant earlier?’

‘Okay,’ Greg nodded. He paused for a moment and thought back, recalling the weeks after his arrival in this remote part of Wales.

‘Initially, I lived in a stupid flat in the village. People here are not unfriendly per se, but when a complete stranger moves in without any ties, they’re quite reserved. Especially if that stranger wants to buy a house. That Tilly was part of the deal didn’t help either. It was sheer luck that one day I went to the church bazaar and bought a bowl of soup from,’ Greg drummed a rataplan with his fingers on the table-top to heighten the suspense, ‘Mrs Hudson’s sister.’

‘But she doesn’t live here. I believe her home is in Sussex,’ Mycroft said without hesitation.

‘She doesn’t,’ Greg agreed. ‘She was visiting her friend Betty Jones to help during the bazaar. Betty’s husband Dylan suffered from dementia that’d worsened enough so she’d decided to sell their house and property, and move to a retirement home.’

‘This property, I presume,’ Mycroft said.

‘You presume correctly. Once I proclaimed no longer a stranger, I could buy this little farm for much less money than I’d expected. Mind you, I was willing to pay more, but for Betty and Dylan it was most important that their animals wouldn’t end up at the butcher.’

Greg poured more tea for them both before he continued. ‘During those first few weeks, I sent several texts to you, a couple of emails and tried to call a few times. You never answered the texts and emails. When I phoned I only got your mailbox, and you didn’t return my calls either.’

Mycroft shook his head. ‘I assure you, Gregory, that I never received any of your calls, texts or emails.’

Looking straight into Mycroft’s eyes, Greg nodded. ‘I considered calling Sherlock but decided that first I’d write you a letter. Took me days to compose,’ he huffed. ‘I received the answer a week later.’

‘What answer?’

Greg got up and retrieved the letter, which he kept in a box together with bills and other unpleasant correspondence.

Mycroft studied the envelope, and Greg saw that he was clenching his jaw. ‘May I?’ Mycroft asked, indicating the letter inside.

Greg nodded. ‘Of course.’

Mycroft pulled out the letter and perused it carefully. When he finally folded the paper and returned it to its envelope, his hands were shaking slightly.

‘I recognize the name and the signature is authentic,’ Mycroft said carefully. ‘But I have no knowledge of this letter nor its content.’

Greg bit his lip, considering the question that was foremost on his mind. ‘Then why did you never call me?’

Mycroft laughed without humour. ‘Because I was stupid,’ he said eventually, resignation in his voice. Running both hands through his hair, Mycroft looked at Greg with a pained expression. ‘I’m truly sorry, Gregory.’

Greg reached out and took Mycroft’s hands in his. ‘It doesn’t matter. We’re here now, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re still my friend and perhaps..’

‘Perhaps?’ Mycroft asked.

Greg licked his lips. Well, there was nothing to lose. He’d kissed Mycroft earlier, and the reaction had not been negative. They’d wasted enough time as it was.

‘Perhaps we could be more than friends. Lovers?’

‘I can see no flaw in your proposal.’ Mycroft’s reply came without hesitation, though he blushed attractively.

It took a full minute for their mutual disbelief to fade before they were grinning at each other like fools. 

‘I’d like to kiss you, Gregory.’

‘Then you should do it. But first,’ Greg tapped on the letter on the table, ‘I want to know, who is Lady Smallwood?’


End file.
